


Desert Rose

by Chaos_Elemental



Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Genre: F/F, Menaphos, Pirates, Sea Shanty II, Smuggling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28137345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaos_Elemental/pseuds/Chaos_Elemental
Summary: Getting into Menaphos isn't easy. However, 19-year-old adventurer Doktin has help along the way.Featuring music, inadvisable camel-wrangling, questions about hand prosthetics, adorable hand-holding, poetry, and a distinct lack of pirates.
Relationships: Player Character/Zanik (Runescape)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Desert Rose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fennfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennfics/gifts).



> A fun little story I wrote for my beta reader, co-author, and very dear friend [fennfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennfics/pseuds/fennfics). Happy birthday, my dude <3

The woman walking through the desert was not a strange sight in and of itself. She was dressed in the appropriate garb for the heat, her white robes fluttering softly in the wind as she made her way over the dunes. 

An errant breeze, now and again, would reveal a scabbard of the weapon tucked into her waist. While one could argue that any sensible traveller braving the Kharidian would take blade-based insurance against crocodiles, vultures, and other such wasteland delights, the pommel of said weapon was perhaps a _touch_ too ornate to be a simple machete or scimitar. 

The handle, perhaps, was a little too worn; the scabbard itself carried several knicks and scratches, inflicted by something more refined than the jaws of some reptile. 

One, as well, could argue that the woman’s eyepatch was an indicator of certain activities pertaining to oceans, ships, humorous talking exotic birds, etc. If asked about this, she would vehemently deny it. While she certainly did engage in sea-based trading, it was of the purely legal and innocent sort; and if, perhaps, along the way, the inter-ship exchanges were considerably more violent and one-sided, they likely fell within the parameters of normal economic conflict. 

The hook hand was pure semantics. Hooks were useful things, after all. One could clean their teeth on the run.

All things considered, the woman crossing the desert with the abnormally large urn on her back was most certainly not a pirate. No siree, she was a law abiding-citizen, thinking of nothing but law-abiding things as she made her way towards a law-abiding city with her absolutely law-abiding goods. 

She paused, taking a draw from her waterskin. After a moment’s thought, she reached around and pulled the cloth binding from the top of the urn on her back, dropping the half-full bottle in. 

There was a sound of sloshing water. And then:

“Thanks, Neith,” the urn said. “I swear to Guthix, it’s hotter than a yak’s arse in here.”

“I’m going to do my best not to imagine that,” the woman named Neith said. “Still holding up alright in there?”

“More or less.” The urn shifted, clinking in a hollow ceramic kind of way. “How much longer are we?”

“Half a league, I’d say. We should hit there before sunset.”

“Bloody fantastic.” 

The voice paused. “Do you have any more pirate stories, by the way?”

Neith grinned. “Always. Which one do you want to hear?”

“The one about you escaping the Rock!”

“Alright. There I was, with nothing but a soup-stained garter, a broken pulley, and a lockpick made from my toenails….”

The woman continued to narrate as she walked, sticking to the shadows of the dunes as much as she could, stopping now and again to take a swig of water or adjust her grip on the urn. 

After about half an hour, Neith could see it, shimmering through the heat and the ever-swirling dust: the high walls of the twin cities, their pale stone nearly blinding in the sunlight. Before the gate stretched a winding line of camels and carts and laden traders alike, each waiting their turn to be let into the tiny gap formed by the barely-open doors. 

Neith let out a whistle. “Menaphos,” she breathed. “Huh. Never seen it from this side before. Can’t set a gate in the sea, I suppose…”

The urn shifted. The cloth lid topping it suddenly popped open, revealing a mop of red hair and the grinning face of the woman attached to it. When she beheld the sight of the twin cities, her eyes widened. 

“They weren’t exaggerating…” she breathed. “It’s even bigger than Burthorpe…”

“Dot!” North hissed. “Get back in! You can admire the city _after_ I pass the gates. The guards’ll see ya a mile away with that damn hair of yours…”

“Fiiiiine,” Doktin sighed, sliding back into the urn. “I still don’t see why we couldn’t take the ports…”

“They’re tightening security,” Neith said, tying the lid back on and resuming her walk towards the city. “Normally hiding ya in a barrel on _The Knave_ wouldn’t be an issue, but, ah, I’ve got some contraband on there I need to drop, and they’re searching harder than ever…”

“ _I_ still liked the old lady disguise idea,” Dot protested. “I can do a perfectly good old lady voice. ‘ _Damn wee whelps, off not completin’ their trials! Back in my day, we had tae fight the Kendal bare-handed!’”_

Neith snorted. “Correction: You’d make a good _Fremennik_ old lady,” she said. “And last time I checked, the Menaphites aren’t taking emissaries from Neitiznot.”

Doktin merely grumbled in response, settling back into her hiding place.

“Don’t get your sails in a knot, kid,” Neith reassured her. “We’re nearly there. Just a bit farther, a quick ID check, and before you know it, we’ll be eating dates by the pool with —”

She stopped dead in her tracks. “Yellow-bellied sons a'troglodytes!”

“What?” 

“Keep it down!” Neith hissed. “They’re doing a cargo inspect at the gates…”

Indeed, the stretching line was at a snail’s pace as the gate guards worked their way through every cart, crate, and basket that passed before them. The sounds of grumbling and protestations carried through on the desert wind, but the guards seemed unperturbed. 

Neith uttered a curse under her breath. “Damn plague! They really _are_ tightening the hold…”

“Should we turn around?” Dot said. Neith shook her head.

“This is a bloody nuisance,” she said, “but it shouldn’t take more than a little charisma to get past.”

“Are you sure?”

“Who do you take me for?” she replied, sliding down a dune with ease. “D’ya think they go around on the high seas calling me ‘Stump-Armed Neith’?” She waved the hook. “A pirate that’s no good at trickery is as good as a barnacle in a bakery. Now shut yer gob and leave it to me.”

The line inched forward. A merchant, carrying a cart full of hay, shouted out in surprise as a pair of soldiers suddenly began to stab the bales with their spears, sending bits of dust and straw flying into the air.

“Huh,” Neith said, her voice low. “They’re taking security pretty seriously…”

The urn didn’t reply. This, Neith reflected, was probably prudent. 

They approached the station. The guard’s gaze lingered on the eyepatch, and then the hook hand. 

Neith flashed a smile. “Lumber accident,” she said, waving her prosthetic. 

The guard raised an eyebrow. “And your eye?”

“Seagull shit in it.”

“Must’ve been some seagull.”

“It was my first day with the hook,” Neith said curtly. “D’ya want my bank details, too, or can we move on?”

“It’s just a customary goods check,” the guard said. “Do you have anything to declare?”

“One urn of the finest perfume solvent an apothecary has to offer,” Neith said, slapping the container on her back. If she heard a snort from it, she didn’t comment on it. 

The guard nodded. “I’ll just have a look inside…”

“No need!” Neith said. “Stuff’s volatile. If I open it now, it’ll all evaporate.”

The guard raised an eyebrow again. “We’re required to check all containers, ma’am. I recommend you take that off your back and open it up yourself, before we have to use force.”

Neith scowled. “ _Fine,_ ” she growled, slowly removing the urn. As she did, she fumbled, the container slipping from her hands and rolling under a nearby cart. 

“Now look at what you’ve made me do!” she snapped, getting on her hands and knees and dragging the urm back. “I could’ve damn well broken the thing!”

She snatched the lid off, frantically looking inside. “Great!” she moaned. “Just like I suspected — it’s all gone and leaked out!”

Eyes wide, the guard peered inside…

And saw there was nothing there. 

“What? How —” he muttered. A shout from near the front of the line made him look up. 

A flash of red hair was disappearing into the crowd, its owner pushing aside scores of disgruntled traders and merchants. 

“Get her! Shut the gates!” the guard shouted. One lunged towards the runner, while another swung his spear towards Neith — 

Who wasn’t there; instead, a single, oversized urn sat in her place, wobbling in the sand. 

Dot raced through the crowds, dodging and weaving her way in the throng. The gates, which had been barely open to begin with, were now rapidly shutting, and the encroaching crowd was making it all the harder to reach it.

A beam of wood, held by a quickly-turning bystander, swung her way; Dot ducked, managing to avoid a collision, and deftly swerved around another trader as she uprighted herself. 

_Almost there, almost there…_ the gate was closing, and the gap was tight, but if she could just slide through…

A hand out of nowhere snatched at her collar, cutting her off with a choke. 

“Got you, you little va —” the guard snarled, only to be cut off by a swift punch to the face. He let go, and Dot wretched herself free. 

She cursed, whipping back towards the gate — 

Which was now shut. The tantalizing sight of the city was closed off by its sandstone bulwark, quickly swallowed by the crowd of unadmitted merchants and now-swarming guards.

_Shit!_ Dot cursed internally. _I need to get out of here before —_

“DOT!” the sound of a familiar voice, growing louder over the rhythm of heavy hoofbeats in the sand, reached her. She felt her collar being tugged again, and she let out a shout as Neith pulled her upward, dragging her onto what felt and smelled like a bundle of ancient, unwashed rugs. 

“What in the name of —” Dot looked down. “Ugthanki?”

“Thank me later,” Neith said. “For now, let’s bail.”

She slapped the camel’s rear. The ugthanki let out an angry bray and took off towards the desert, sending a spray of sand in the face of the now considerably angry crowd it left behind. 

Dot heard the guards shout again behind them, growing every quieter as the camel put more and more desert behind it; after about a minute, the only sound she could hear was their ride’s hoofbeats, and the soft whistle of the desert wind over the dunes. 

“Well,” Neith said, skidding the ugthanki to a stop, “that could have gone better.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Dot said, sliding off the creature’s back. “Coulda been captured by the guards. Had our feet cut off for smuggling.”

“Ha! Menaphos doesn’t resort to barbaric practices like that,” Neith said, joining Dot on the ground. “They just go the simple route and execute you. Nice and easy.”

She slapped the camel on the rear again. “Away with you! Shoo!”

The camel snorted, lobbing a wad a green-foul-smelling spit at the pirate, who deftly dodged it. Then it turned its head and left, its form becoming obscured by the dust it kicked forth. 

Dot watched it go. “I didn’t know you could ride those things,” she remarked. 

“You can’t,” Neith said. “Not usually. Cy taught me how, but I near had the fingers I’ve got left bitten off. Nasty bastards, those.”

“Mmm.” Dot sat down, letting the remaining adrenaline from the chase drain, and half-heartedly lamenting her very bruised behind. “Now what? Try to scale the walls?”

“Might be what we end up doing.” Neith sat back in the sand, letting out a heavy sigh. “Probably have to wait til morning, though. They patrol like sharks during the night time.”

“I could’ve taken on those damn guards…” Dot grumbled. 

“You and what army?” Neith laughed. “You’ve got guts, kid. And you’ve got that Fremmie toughness to boot. But I’d rather not see you turned into a shishkebab by a bunch of half-rate gate babysitters…”

“Hmmm.” Dot lay back again, grateful for the soft sand. The sun was starting to set, turning the sky a blazing pink as the light oozed to the west, even now, she could feel the night’s chill beginning to creep into the ground. 

The twin cities were still visible, their wall tops peeking over the dunes almost teasingly. She closed her eyes, trying to think of how to surmount them. 

_We could rappel over,_ she mused, mentally calculating if the rope in her pack would be enough. _Or we could dig under, like the goblins…_

She wished Zanik were there — though, perhaps, for reasons that extended past subterranean entry purposes. 

“We’ll sleep on it,” Neith said, tossing her a mat. “I’m sure an idea will come in the night.”

_Or some buzzards,_ Dot thought. _Then_ _at least we’ll have dinner sorted._

* * *

The answer, it turns out, did come in the night. It didn’t come in sleep, but instead firelight, distantly flickering over the dunes, and in the strum of a lute in the cold night air. 

Dot sat up, rubbing her eyes. The music wasn’t too far, though its origin was out of sight, though she could more or less ascertain its general direction. It was pitch-black, the sliver of Zanaris above doing little to encroach on the night’s constellations above. 

She glanced over. Neith wasn’t on her mat. 

She looked up. Stark against the stars, her eyes caught a dark, pirate-shaped silhouette, a spyglass carefully balanced her hook. 

Dot trudged over to her. “Bandits?” she said, watching the shapes as they moved in the firelight.

Neith shook her head. “Too musical. Probably a bunch of travelling entertainers. Might be trying to get into the city for their next show.”

She tapped her hook against the spyglass in a thoughtful sort of way. “Which gives me an idea…”

She collapsed the telescope, sliding down the dune towards the group. “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll call you over when the time’s right.”

Dot watched her go, hand tracing Balmung’s pommel at her belt. In the distance, Neith introduced herself with a wave, and the sound of music abruptly stopped — replaced now with startled voices.

Dot couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it sounded like questions. Then, tense replies. Neith spoke for a length, and then produced a bag from her hip. Cash — the universal lubricant. 

More talking. A handshake — briefly delayed by the presentation of the hook. Then Neith gesturing for Dot to come over.

Dot proceeded, sliding down the dune with a little less grace than the pirate did, and stepped into the circle of firelight. 

She could see the travellers a little more clearly now — they were all obviously musicians, dressed in bright mismatched clothing and carrying various instruments. Their leader was a behemoth of a man, standing taller than the rest of them; the impressive, broad-brimmed hat he wore did little to diminish his height. 

“Dot!” Neith greeted, stepping forward. “Glad you could come. Meet Valerio —” she gestured to the tall musician — “or as you might know him, our ticket into Menaphos.”

Valerio stuck out a hand, which Dot took without comment. They shook, Dot perhaps holding her grip a little stronger and longer than she should have, as she carefully scrutinized Valerio’s lined face. His eyes seemed to hold no malice, instead watching her as she watched him.

“Pleased to meet ya,” Dot said. “Didn’t reckon we’d run into any bards this far in the desert.”

“It’s not our natural habitat,” he said, wryly, “but the people of Menaphos will likely have more coin to offer than the crocodiles.”

Dot cracked a smile. “So how d’ya plan on getting us in there, in any case?”

“Let’s discuss specifics later,” Valerio said. “The moon is high. Now? We play.”

Dot watched, bewilderedly, as he turned back to the other musicians. He picked up his lute from its place by the fire and began to strum a tune.

“ _A Rose in The Drought_?” he said. The others nodded. 

Valerio played a chord, his fingers dancing along the strings as the song began to swell. He breathed in, the others slowly joining in with their instruments. Face flickering in the dying fire’s flames, he began to sing. 

“ _A rose in the drought knows only sorrow_ , _her leaves all fallen, her petals torn,”_ Valerio sang, his voice low and haunting. _“Her form is hunched, her nectar dry, raised and burned by the sun she was born…_ ”

The other musicians ramped up, filling the night air with their playing. Valerio’s lute-strumming intensified, hands sliding up and down the strings with concentrated intensity. He continued.

_“But a rose in the drought smells all the sweeter, her thorns are sharper, fierce petals unwind,_ ” he sang. “ _For a rose grown in plenty is one in a thousand, but a rose born in drought is one of her kind…”_

Dot listened, silent, watching the performers as she sat next to Neith. The pirate was tapping the beat to the song on her boot, though Dot remained still. 

“Not enjoying it?” Neith asked. Doktin shook her head. 

“No, no, it’s lovely,” she said. “I’m just… taking it in, I suppose.”

Dot had heard musicians before, of course. There were the bards and skalds she grew up with, of course, and the occasional singer or flute player on the roads; that music was a pleasant distraction enough on a long journey or after a day in the slayer caves. 

But _this_ was anything but — more than a passing fancy. It was like a tapestry of sound; their voices, the lute, the pipes, the tambourine, the bells on the singer’s wrists and ankles. It was a wild thing, beating and organic and _alive_ , but also carrying a light delicacy, more swift and flying than the rough sagas of her homeland. 

She was entranced. The song pulled her in and crawled into her thoughts, and she had a feeling it would stay there for some time. 

The song ended, the musicians each slowly fading out. Neith gave an enthusiastic round of applause (i.e. violently rapped her hook-hand on the nearest hard surface) and Dot found herself joining in. 

Valerio took a bow. “A little music to end the night,” he said, “and to charm your ears into sleep in the lonely desert cold.”

The troubadours sat around the fire once more, idly chatting among themselves. The tambourinist sat next to Dot, fiddling with the braids on his instrument. He looked strangely pale for someone travelling the Kharidian, Dot noted; when he noticed her staring at him, he turned away, red-faced.

“Don’t mind him,” Valerio said, sitting across from them. “Quint’s a little on the quiet side, but he’s good at what he does. Do you play at all?”

“The tam — taber — the thingie?” Dot said. “No, not that.”

“Any instrument, then?”

“Ah, just the lyre,” she shrugged. “And that was years ago, for my trials…”

She paused, lost in thought. “Where did that song come from, by the way?”

“ _Rose in The Drought?_ ” Valerio said. “Ah, it’s an old druidic tune. Translated and passed down and mangled a little, of course, but the meaning’s still there.”

“Hmmm.” For some reason, it made her inexplicably sad. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by Neith, who plopped down on the mat next to her, a mad grin plastered on her face. 

“I hope you folks know all the best bawdy ones!” she laughed. “ _The Asgarnian, Banana Rum and Milk, The Kebbit Can’t Be B—”_

“How are we gonna get into the city?” Dot interrupted. “Do they have an instrument case I can hide in? Are the musicians going to distract the guards while we sneak up and wallop ‘em?”

“Oh,” Neith said, her grin growing wider. “I have an entirely different idea in mind…”

* * *

“Put it on.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Dot gestured to the outfit in question. “Look at this thing! There’s not any defensive value to it at all!” She picked up a loose end of scarf, colorful and translucent against the slowly-lightening sand. “What in Kendal’s name is this even supposed to cover?”

“The left leg, I think,” Neith said. “And to be fair, it’s unisex.”

Dot shook her head. “I don’t care what it’s meant to do in bed, I’m not wearing it!” _Bloody performers and their ridiculous outfits..._

The musicians were clearing camp now, packing up their mats and instruments in preparation for their entry to Menaphos. Neith was already wearing her disguise — a red tunic and trouser set that she somehow managed to make look piratical, even with her hook hand hidden away and her missing eye artfully concealed by a headscarf. 

The current outfit option Dot had, however….

“Isn’t there anything else?” she said testily. Neith dug around in the pile Valerio had supplied them. 

“Dress?”

“No, I can’t run in it.”

“Toga?”

“Those bedsheet thingies? No thank you.”

“How about…?” Neith pulled out what looked for a moment to be a tangle of curtain tassels. “Actually, on second thought..”

“What about this?” Doktin pulled free a green cloak, faded by time and wear. It was thick, its hood voluminous, and totally unsuitable for the heat of the desert. 

However, something about it compelled her. The verdant cloth seemed to glimmer in the early-morning sun; the fabric, though coarse, felt comforting under her fingertips. 

“Ya sure?” Neith said. “You’ll look even more conspicuous in that, if you don’t roast alive before we hit the gate.”

Dot nodded. “I’m sure.” She pulled the cloak around her. It was a little big for her, but it concealed her clothes and her shock-red hair nearly completely. She reckoned that if she sank down into the sand, she could simply roll up in it and sleep.

“Well, if that works for you, then we can be off,” Neith said, gathering the bundle of clothes. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve if things go sideways, but as long as we keep our heads low and our mouths shut, it should be smooth sailing.”

The unlikely group made their way across the desert, keeping to the sun’s shadow as it fled over the dunes. The early morning chill was still present, and Dot was grateful for the cloak’s thickness. 

They reached the gate just as the air began to warm, the line of traders and merchants already beginning to grow. Despite her concealment, Dot couldn’t help but trace her hand over Balmung’s handle again, every sudden movement and ever sideways glance of a guard setting her more on edge. The musicians seemed relaxed, if demure; they spoke to each other in hushed tones, sometimes pointing to some feature of the wall or the traders among them. 

The sun rose higher. The air was growing more hot, and Dot began to grow uncomfortably toasty under the thick cloth of her cloak. Still, she kept it shut tight, moreso as they approached the guards at the gate.

Their turn in line arrived. The guard gave Valerio a long, hard look as he approached. 

“Your business?” the guard said. 

Valerio bowed. “Humble musicians, good sir, here to bring joy to the good folk of Menaphos.”

“And specially requested,” Neith said, stepping forward and placing a sheet of paper on the table, “by the Kharidian embassy.”

_Good thinking, Neith,_ Dot thought to herself — she could see the embassy’s red seal glimmering at the bottom of the parchment. Where would a pirate be without a little forgery, after all?

The guard squinted at the letter, then at Valerio, and then at the group as a whole. Dot felt her heartbeat pick up, and her grip on Balmung grew tighter…

“You may pass,” the guard said, gesturing to the gate. “But if I hear of any trouble…”

“None from us, good sir,” Valerio said. “Thank you kindly for your service.”

The musicians headed for the gate, and Dot felt a wave of relief wash over her. _Thank gods,_ she thought, finally letting her shoulders relax. _That went over way easier than I —”_

“Wait a moment!” the guard called. Dot froze, feeling his gaze settle on her back. “You. Pull your hood down. I want to see what you look like.”

Dot tensed again, her hand flying to her axe. She scanned the crowd, looking for a route of escape, or a way to take on the guard without getting swarmed — 

“Begging your pardon.” She felt Valerio’s hand rest on her shoulder, his form towering over hers. “She’s got a terrible burn on her face. The healer we went to said she must keep it out of the sun, lest it scar.”

The guard scowled. “Fine then. But if she is who she says she is…” he grinned. “Play us a tune.”

One of the musicians stepped forward. “We can certainly do an impromptu performance…”

“Not you,” the guard said, pointing. “Her.”

Dot felt all eyes on her. Wordlessly, she reached over and grabbed the lute from Valerio’s back. Before he could protest, she strummed a chord on it.

It had been too long since her fingers had felt the strings of an instrument. Her homemade lyre was still sitting somewhere in Neitiznot, likely out of tune. Her thoughts turned to the songs of her homeland — the low growling rhythms, the pounding sagas — but she knew she couldn’t play them. Not now, not here.

Instead, she pulled forth the song that had been creeping in her head the whole night since she’d encountered the unlikely group of troubadours. 

_A rose in the drought knows only sorrow_ , _her leaves all fallen, her petals torn,_ she thought to herself, as the first few lines of the song stumbled from the lute. _And please don’t expect me to sing…_

She continued. _Her form is hunched, her nectar dry,_ she strummed. _Raised and burned by the sun she was born..._

Slowly, the song formed. It was a single thread of the tapestry she’d heard not long ago — delicate, a little unsteady. But it was a thread nonetheless, shining and discernable, golden in the rising sun. 

In the background, she heard the tambourinist begin to settle into the tune with his instrument. Then the drummer, and the piper…

“ _But a rose in the drought smells all the sweeter,_ ” Valerio began, his voice low. “ _Her thorns are sharper, fierce petals unwind..._ ”

His voice grew louder, as the musicians joined in on the song. Its strength grew, rising over the chatter of the traders and the braying of their camels, til even too, they became silent in wake of the song’s path. 

There it was — the weaving, the light, the unexplainable sadness piercing in her chest — but now she _channelled_ it, making it a part of her, joining in its creation….

Tears pricked at her eyes. But still, she played. 

Soon, however, she felt the song begin to ebb, the last lines creeping up like winter frost. 

_For a rose grown in plenty is one in a thousand,”_ Valerio sang, _“but a rose born in drought is one of her kind…”_

Slowly, the other musicians came to a halt, until it was just Dot, strumming the last, sorrowful note on her borrowed lute. 

She let her fingers slide away from the strings, the last few chords dying in the dry desert air. For a moment, there was quiet; no sound, but for the soft whistle of the desert wind, encroached upon that moment of peace. 

Then, someone clapping. Then, two, then more, joined by a few raucous cheers. Something clinked at her boot — Dot looked down, and saw a few flung bronze coins landing by her feet. 

The musicians bowed, Valerio managing to flick a copper into his hand as he rose. “We’ll be in the city all week!” he shouted over the crowd. "Find us in the merchant district, and toss us a coin if our songs delight you!” 

Dot found herself being ushered from behind, and she turned to see Neith, grinned, pushing her towards the gate. 

“Nice work, kid,” she said. “I didn’t think you had it in you!”

“I didn’t!” Dot hissed. “And thank gods he didn’t make me sing, or I would’ve curdled the cacti!”

They passed through the gates. Immediately, Dot’s nose was assaulted by all a manner of smells — perfumes and fruits and spices and camel and Guthix-knew-what else. The city, however, was sparkling clean; gleaming marble and golden sandstone stretched under their feet, as lush greenery and tall shady palms peeked from planters and greenways lining the streets. All around, traders shouted out their wares, arguing and bargaining and haggling in one discordant thrum. 

Dot stumbled. Not even Varrock was this chaotic — and it had the decency to smell mostly of shit and stale beer, not a hundred things all at once.

“Easy, sailor,” Neith said, catching her back. “Mena’s a little overwhelming the unprepared. Let’s get you to the embassy, and you can settle in.”

She turned to Valerio. “Thanks again for the little smuggling job. I hope we didn’t draw too much attention to ya.”

Valerio, however, grinned. “Attention is our bread and butter,” he said. “And no doubt our little performance at the gates will bring more eyes and ears to us during our stay here.”

Dot held out his lute. “Thanks for letting me borrow this,” she said. “And the cloak —”

“Keep it,” Valerio said. “It’s too modest for most of us, and consider it payment for the concert.”

“Thank ya.” Dot grinned, pulling the cloak tighter around herself. “Where are ya headed for after this?”

“Ah, perhaps north,” Valerio said, little distractedly. “There is a friend of mine I wish to see at the Abbey… if our feet lead us there.”

Dot and Neith bid the musicians goodbye, and Neith led her down the path, dodging traders and camel carts alike. Dot found her eyes looking everywhere — at the high buildings, at the strange plants and the wondrous wares lining every stall they passed — until they finally came to a stop in front of a tidy-looking building, lined with planters full of desert flowers and palms. On the walls, Dot could spy the banners of Al Kharid, fluttering gently in the breeze.

Neith reached forward and knocked, her metal hook rapping smartly against the shining wooden door. 

“Sorry!” a familiar voice echoed from the inside. “We’re closed today!”

Neith grinned. “Even to old friends and crewmates?” she shouted. 

There was a sound of shuffling papers, then footsteps, and the rattle of a latch. The door opened, revealing a very tired-looking, but nonetheless grinning Cyrisus. 

“Neith! Dot!” He grabbed both of them in a bearhug at once, nearly lifting both of them off the ground. “I was worried sick, I knew you mentioned there might be a day’s delay but I was practically patrolling round the jail in case you’d been caught…”

“Give me some credit, mate,” Neith wheezed. “You think an old sea dog like me would let us be captured?”

“Ah, fair point.” Cyrisus released the two, setting them down on the ground again. “Dot, it’s been _ages_. How have you been? I daresay you’ve gotten stronger since I’ve last seen you…”

“You know me,” Dot grinned. “I can’t keep my hands out of trouble — did I tell you about the demon I fought in Uzer?

Cyrisus’s eyes widened. “Demon?”

“Aye — was a right nasty bastard, some cult was tryin’ ta pull him back into Gielinor…”

She continued narrating her story as they headed into the embassy, cheerfully describing how she stained Silverlight and closed the portal to the Infernal Realm, when Cyrisus interrupted her. 

“I want to hear the rest of this,” he said, a slight smile on his face. “Especially the bit about the golem, I’d thought those things were only in legends — but I’ve got some pressing business to attend to. Do you want to head upstairs and freshen up?”

“Fiiiiine,” Dot conceded. “But when I get back, I want to hear about what you’ve been up ta — I’ve been gettin’ rumours of you fightin’ the Kalphite Queen all on your own!”

“No spoilers,” Cyrisus laughed. “Go on, I won’t be long. Guest room’s the second on the left.”

Dot made her way upstairs, gratefully to peel away her cloak and enjoy the coolness of the indoors. She reached the guest doorway, releasing a sigh she’d been holding in her chest since she’d started crossing the desert.

_Finally,_ she thought. _I can shake the sand out of my boots, change these manky robes, and maybe even get a bath in...”_

She opened the door, and was immediately assaulted by a flying green blur from above, crashing into her with a bone-crushing hug. 

“DOT!” it shrieked, hugging tighter. Dot sat up bewilderedly. 

“What in the…” she paused. “Zanik?”

The cave goblin looked up, her wide eyes glittering. “The very one, dear.”

“AAAAAH!” Dot tackled her with a hug in return, half-laughing as they rolled along the floor. “How in hell didja manage to get here? I had no idea!”

“Cyrisus snuck me in here,” Zanik said. “Shipped me in an urn for perfume scent —”

“Ha! Can’t fool the guards twice, it seems,” Dot laughed. “You must’ve stunk to high heaven for weeks!”

“Oh, don’t get me started. I nearly shrivelled the poor flowers of every planter I walked by…”

They kept chattering, as Dot disentangled herself and they headed down the hallway. As they did, their hands found eachother, even down the awkwardness of heading downstairs — though, perhaps, the height difference helped a touch. 

As they did, relegating eachother with stories and good-hearted riffs, Dot realized that even though she was in a desert thousands of miles from the island she’d grown up on, and perhaps the farthest south she’d ever been from Rellekka, she knew it: 

She was home. 

* * *

Later:

A rooftop. Darkness. Stars, stretching above them. The constellations, though a little off, were still the same in substance as anywhere else on Gielinor. The Eagle. The Fenris Wolf. Koschei. Some she’d learned other names to — The Sickle. Leo. Rat Eating String Bean. 

Zanik wanted to know them all. She’d always been enthusiastic about the night sky, more so than for mere navigation. She’d trace her fingers over every star and figure, whispering their names and stories under her breath, asking Dot what she knew and thought of them. The first time Dot had visited the goblin's house, she noticed the painting above her bed — a sky map, down in the caves where naturally wasn’t one. 

Zanik had gotten used to the sun, after some time. But the stars, she’d always stop and watch in awe every time.

Their hands were in each other again, pressed against the cool stone of the roof. There was a sweet smell drifting over them, and Dot could see the source silhouetted against the night sky. Roses, bowed with the night drew, bordering the roof and filling the air with their scent. 

“Those came with the embassy,” Zanik said, following her gaze. “Cyrisus tends to them, though. I think he likes working on the gardens.”

“Mmm.” Dot squeezed her hand tighter, and felt it returned. She was wearing her cloak again, and it was large enough to cover the both of them against the night’s chill. 

Impulsively, she rolled over, grabbed Zanik by the waist and pressing a kiss to her cheek. Zanik let out a surprised squeak, her face blushing to a deep green. 

“What was that for?!” she accused playfully.

Dot grinned. “Ya know why.”

Zanik raised an eyebrow, a mischievous smile creeping up on her face. Then, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to Dot’s.

Doktin sighed, pulled her closer. The cave goblin was warm against her chest, and she snuggled into Dot’s chest, her fingers tracing through her short hair. 

They parted. Zanik still had that half-smile on her face, her eyes glimmering.

“Hey,” Zanik said, softly. 

“Hey,” Dot said. 

“Tomorrow,” Zanik said, “I want to go on an adventure.”

“Together?”

“How else?”

“I’m in.”

Zanik grinned, and kissed her again. 

In that moment, far off in an unknown desert, there was perfection; there were stars, there was the scent of roses, the cold night air and a cloak that shielded them both. 

And, in the distance, the far-off sound of music. 


End file.
